


Solstice

by hallahart



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Iron Bull/Dorian, Background Josephine/Blackwall, Christmasfic, F/M, Fluff, Gift Giving, Josephine + Inquisitor Friendship, Kissing, Mild Angst, Spoilers, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallahart/pseuds/hallahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the darkest night of the year, Lavellan finds a few things to celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solstice

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy Christmas-- uhhhh, Solstice fic! Since it's Solas, a little angst crept in. Okay, more than a little. I took a lot of liberties with the solstice celebrations, forgive me.
> 
> Spoilers within, if you know what to look for. Un-beta'd, so please let me know if you see any errors.

* * *

 

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Josephine was deeply invested in holidays. Specifically, holiday party planning. After the third conversation about whether the laurels should be painted in gold leaf or silver, Lavellan felt she had to speak up.

“I’m really not the person to ask,” she said. 

Josephine smiled a little ruefully. “Apologies, Inquisitor. Of course you wouldn’t be as invested in the candle-lighting ceremonies as I am. It was thoughtless of me.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said, shaking her head. She appreciated Josephine’s enthusiasm, despite her utter unfamiliarity with the customs. Skyhold could use a little merriment. “I just feel… a little out of my depth. Our solstice celebrations didn’t involve any tiny cakes.”

Josephine looked very sad for her. Then her expression turned conniving. “Why don’t you tell me about Dalish traditions, then? I admit, I could use some new inspiration for the decorations… and the party should include everyone, don’t you think?”

Lavellan smiled. It was thoughtful of her, considering all the nobles who would surely be judgmental of any straying from scripture. “Well, we don’t decorate much, it’s really just bonfires and a feast…”

Josephine, quill at the ready, took copious notes.

 

* * *

 

The onset of winter had brought a standstill to most of the Inquisition’s activities outside Skyhold. A single passage through the Frostbacks kept them supplied, for now, but every blizzard brought shortages. Luckily, their enemies were equally slowed by the snow— the Venatori didn’t know what to do with themselves in a snowstorm, and the red templars had holed up deep in their fortresses, stopping, at least for now, their raids on villages. The real work of war would have to wait until spring thaws (not that that stopped Leliana— her ravens still flew from the aviary on the hour).

Lavellan quickly became stir-crazy. She hadn’t spent more than a week in succession at Skyhold in months, thanks to her business darting between the Hinterlands, the Storm Coast and Crestwood. Her quarters still felt as unfamiliar as they did the first night she’d slept there— she was so used to campfires and starlight.

So she took to shadowing her inner circle. She assisted Dorian with organizing the library, sharing sips from a flask of Tevinter firewhisky he’d snatched from a Venatori outpost. She helped Cassandra repair the training dummies the swordswoman had cleaved in two. Varric she’d asked for help with crafting traps in the Undercroft, Dagna egging them on, a little star-struck in Varric’s presence. And on, and on.

She’d tried to help Solas with his research— his book order from the Great Library at Val Royeaux had beaten the last blizzard by a day— but he’d waved her off, smiling at the pout she forgot to conceal. He’d been distant since they’d returned from their last journey to Crestwood, a little secretive. She hadn’t known what to make of it, but left him to his business. She had no claim on him, after all— a single kiss in the Fade didn’t make him hers. He’d asked her for time to think, and she’d agreed, and that was that.

So she’d run out of people to bother. That left solitude— a rare commodity at Skyhold, her days there taken up by the minutiae of running a fortress. She should have been able to enjoy it. When she lived with her clan she’d _relished_ her time alone. Precious time away from watching eyes and chattering mouths, away from the close-packed living that life on the road entailed. Silence gave her a centered feeling she couldn’t quite grasp around other people.

Lately, though, her solitude turned down darker roads, the scar on her hand a constant reminder of all she had to lose. Her thoughts wandered to Redcliffe, the future that lay at their doorstep if she took a single wrong step, the friends who had died for her, _would_ die for her, as if that was something she ever wanted. The scream that left her throat raw hours after falling through the portal. The dead weight of Solas and Cassandra when they fell at her feet, dead flesh slapping on the floor, cries cut short by digging claws. Leliana, her throat slit, eyes unseeing, face disfigured by a hundred cuts…

She shuddered, making her way towards her quarters, willing her thoughts towards something more pleasant— anything.

Her quarters were toastier than the long stairway leading to them, and she silently thanked Dorian yet again for the heating spells he’d cast on the stones. Whoever thought a massive stone chamber on top of a snowy mountain could make for comfortable living quarters must have been mad.

She opened the small chest at the foot of her bed, making sure nothing had been taken. An illogical habit left over from living with little cousins who would raid her tea stash with abandon. Not so little now, she supposed. Some of them had surely earned their vallaslin by now. What else was she missing, so many leagues from home?

She’d learned a little about Andrastian solstice traditions from Josephine over the past weeks, and she knew it would be a nice gesture to participate. So she’d found little trinkets for her friends— a new scarf for Sera, bought for an exorbitant sum off of a traveling merchant (he was extorting her, but she had gotten used to that, being the Inquisitor, and didn’t mind— the roads were bad and he, too, had to eat); a novel for Cassandra (not quite a Tethras, but his publications had slowed recently— busy man); alcohol for Bull (she had no idea what solstice customs the Qun had, if any, but she was sure he wouldn’t turn down some Chasind sack mead); schematics for Varric, and a new writing quill (Cassandra would thank her for that one); A stack of incomprehensible books for Dorian (slipped inside: A Traveler’s Guide to Qunari Courtship); a fine whittling knife for Blackwall (when she’d discovered he was a craftsman, he’d made her a tiny halla statue); a vase of Serault glass for Vivienne (a truly difficult person to buy for— she’d gone for the most expensive thing she could find); a flower she'd paid to be magicked to never wither for Cole (he’d been sad that flowers died when cut, and it had been mildly heartbreaking).

Her advisers had stumped her, until she remembered Leliana’s fondness for sweets, and she’d harangued the kitchenmaids into helping her bake them all tiny cakes.

Tiny cakes— they seemed like a stupid gift for a woman who had given her life for Lavellan, albeit in another world. But they would make her smile, she was sure.

That left Solas. If she should even get him a gift. He surely scorned human traditions even more than those of the Dalish. But it would be strange to give gifts to all her friends and not him…

Then an idea struck her, perfect, like a spirit whispering in her ear, and she was off, headed for the library tower. She had a Spymaster to speak with.

 

* * *

 

The Andrastian celebrations began on the eve of the winter solstice, with prayer services and fasting.

As Herald, she was more or less required to attend the church services, however much she might privately prefer not to— but her life was not entirely her own, now, and she could sit through some words from Mother Giselle if it made her people happy.

Sometimes she wondered where the line was, between keeping her people happy and betraying herself.

Sometimes she wondered what her Keeper would think. Other times she was afraid that she might not care. Her life had a breadth to it, now, that she had never found sequestered in her clan, fearful of the unfamiliar. The thought pushed guilt deep in her chest— would she be a stranger to her own people, when all this was over? 

So she sat through the Chant and sat through the candle lighting and wished she were anywhere else and did not let it show on her face. Sermons were _long_. And they did this every week?

The service was held in Skyhold’s great hall, and when it was over, she was tired to the bone. But there was more— something about a choir in the garden that had Josephine fussing over laurels again.

Shuffling out of the hall, she glanced into the rotunda by habit. It was filled with warm candlelight, long, low shadows cutting across the walls. She so badly wished to be free of her duties, to go sit on the floor there and talk until the candles burnt out, as they often did. She could just make out his silhouette, hunched over his desk, surrounded by books. Then the crowed pushed her along, and the image was gone.

* * *

 

The pre-dawn hours of the solstice brought the heaviest snowfall Skyhold had yet seen. When the sun crested the Frostbacks, it set the world alight in pinks and orange hues, glittering like a spell. If she squinted she could see the crystal spires of Arlathan Solas spoke of seeing in dreams. The turrets of their fortress reached to the sky, encased in ice and shimmering.

She spent an hour on her balcony in the early morning light, watching the last heavy snowflakes fall lightly around her.

Once the rest of the fortress woke, she did what she could to help the snow removal efforts. But their mages had it down to a finely-honed routine, and with a few well-placed fire runes the courtyards and battlements were clear. Josephine, thrilled that it would be a white solstice, insisted they leave as much snow as they could without impacting any essential functions.

“If you can believe it, my lady, I had never seen snow before Haven,” Josephine said. Her smile was rueful. Lavellan saw the homesickness in her face and felt a fresh kinship with her— Josephine worked so hard to make what she did seem effortless, to be the Inquisition’s perfect tool, but in the end she was so much like Lavellan, a woman displaced.

“It’s beautiful,” Lavellan replied, touching her arm with a smile. A year ago, the thought of finding a friend in a human noble would have made her laugh.

“It is, isn’t it?” They looked out over the courtyard below, and Josephine’s wistful expression turned furious in an instant. “Is that Sera? Is she truly throwing snowballs at Count Montfaucon? Oh, Maker save us… excuse me, Inquisitor, I have to go and stop an international incident.”

Lavellan hid a grin behind her hand.

 

* * *

 

The solstice feast was like nothing she’d ever seen. To the Dalish, a feast meant a boar on a spit, seasonings of rare herbs, a bonfire, dancing, and rites to the Creators. A night when the Dalish, always on high alert, could relax. When friends and lovers could enjoy each other’s company, unburdened by anything beyond the light of the bonfire. Her clan was moderate in their festivities, but the tales she heard of others turned her ears pink.

To the Andrastians, a feast meant something a great deal… fancier. Something with lots of different forks. She was glad she’d decided to wear something prettier than her usual leathers— that night she’d picked the nicest thing hanging in her closet, a simple dress of dark green wool, tied with a plum sash at the waist. Underneath she wore a pair of simple leggings and soft leather boots. Leliana had tried to ply her with some more complicated Orlesian styles, but she just didn’t feel comfortable in a dress that couldn’t accommodate unexpected combat. Leliana didn’t try too hard— after she’d worn full armor and a bow to Vivienne’s fête in Val Royeaux, the spymaster seemed to have given up on making her fashionable.

The great hall bloomed with overflowing bouquets of embrium. Elaborate candelabras hung from the ceiling, globes of light in the highest rafters mimicking starlight.

She stepped inside and the scent— a heady mix of sandalwood and juniper— brought stinging tears to her eyes. The incense wafting from the fireplaces was _Dalish_. Josephine’s doing, no doubt, but she wondered how she’d gotten it so exactly _right_ from the vague descriptions Lavellan had given her. When she closed her eyes she was back under the stars, a mug of clover honey mead in hand and the darkness of the forest around her, the fire playing on the faces of the little ones, dancing and twirling like will-o-wisps, the cold grasp of winter held at bay for a night.

A hand on her shoulder. “All right?”

Dorian. He looked quite dashing, draped in black velvet. And, as usual, he made her feel underdressed. “I can’t believe this,” she said, “However much we’re paying Josephine, it’s not enough.”

He sniffed. “The incense is a bit much, don’t you think?”

She sat at the highest table with her advisers and honored guests. As usual with these kind of things, she followed Josephine’s lead when it came to the forks. Conversation was easy— she mostly listened— but below she could hear her friends, louder and louder as the evening went on and the wine flowed more freely. She wished she could sit with them, but she had responsibilities, even if Iron Bull’s raucous laugh made her wish she could sidle away and be in on the joke.

She stole glances at them from time to time, careful not to look too longing. A card game seemed to have erupted, Varric at the center, in his element. 

Once, Solas caught her eye and raised his glass to her, a brightness in his eyes. She returned the gesture, sipping to hide her blush.

Some of the food was Dalish, mixed in with the roasted goose and heaping piles of root vegetables roasted in rosemary. Game seasoned with wild mushrooms, onion and spices. Subtle enough for the Andrastians, obvious enough to be clear that the Inquisition wasn’t ashamed of where their leader came from. No one complained.

 

* * *

 

When supper ended, the mood turned more casual. A massive bonfire was lit in the courtyard— another Dalish touch— and bards played music for dancing. Kegs from the cellars were brought up and quickly emptied. The smiles of her people — and when was the precise moment she started thinking of _them_ as her people, instead of her clan?— warmed her as much as the mulled wine.

Her gifts were well received by her friends— Bull downed the sack mead like it was water, giving her a friendly shoulder slap that would smart for days. If any of them were surprised at her adoption of a human tradition, they didn’t show it. 

She felt guilty accepting gifts of her own. How many times had they risked their lives for her? It didn’t seem right. They owed her nothing. But, nonetheless, a small pile of thoughtful trinkets ended up in her hands over the course of the evening, and she could hardly refuse.

She received more gifts that night than she had in the rest of her life combined.A knife from her father, before the fever took him. A bow from her keeper, before the Conclave. Lock picks from her eldest cousin. Always weapons, always tools.

The group of them (save Vivienne, who went to gossip with the Orlesian delegation) sat around the bonfire, drinking and laughing. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so at peace. The worries of the past and future were behind glass, still visible but unable to touch her.

Bull and Dorian stretched out, feet to the fire, faces close and smiling at private jokes. Cassandra, somehow softer out of her armor, tried to read the book Lavellan had given her by the firelight, enraptured. Varric, Blackwall and Sera were embroiled in some intense private gossip— a mystery until, six beers in, Blackwall asked for a dance from Josephine, Sera and Varric smirking triumphantly. Lavellan could see Josephine’s blush from across the yard— she accepted. Cullen, excited to try the traveling chess set given to him by an anonymous admirer, had challenged Solas to a game. 

Good luck to him, she thought wryly. The commander was an excellent player, but she knew where her bet would lie.

Once or twice she caught sight of Cole, playing matchmaker and easing painful memories, nudging her people towards happiness. He’d tucked the rose into the brim of his hat.

 

* * *

 

After a time, Lavellan found herself sitting by the bonfire alone, her friends either celebrating more _privately_ or seeking out the warmth of the great hall. Solitude again, but the crisp night air and wine made her spirits light.

It wasn’t a surprise when Solas joined her. The firelight played on his face, a contrast of deep shadows and stark light.

“Enjoying the evening?” He hefted a stick and stirred the fire, sparks crackling towards the sky.

“I am,” she said, and found it true. “Yourself?”

“I’m pleased,” he said. “Your commander is not a bad player. And Lady Montilyet is a marvelous terror, as ever. Have you ever seen so many Orlesian lords and ladies eat Dalish cuisine and smile?”

“And that’s why when people give me credit for the Inquisition’s accomplishments, I have to laugh.”

He shook his head, but let the comment pass. “Tell me, what is the purpose of the solstice bonfires, to the Dalish?” 

The question surprised her— he had never shown an interest in her people’s mythology before, except to throw scorn. He didn’t seem scornful now. He carried himself with a lightness she didn’t see often, animated and unburdened by the weight he seemed so often to shoulder.

She began hesitantly. “Well, some of the Dalish think the fire symbolizes Mythal convincing Elgar’nan to return the sun to the sky after a time of darkness and cold, heralding the arrival of warmer days. Some think the fire wards off Fen’Harel, who is strongest on the darkest night of the year. My Keeper always said it was a little of both.”

An odd smile played across his face. “And do you believe these stories?”

She shrugged. “They’re stories, not history. The truth of them isn’t in the facts.” The truth was in the fire, hot now on her face, warding off the deep hollows of darkness around them, making the great courtyard of Skyhold feel as intimate as a tent. The truth was in the warmth in her chest, buoyed by the wine settling in her stomach.

“Of course, you are correct. But what when stories are all that is left, and to the world they become facts?

She grinned crookedly over at him, teasing. “Didn’t you once tell me that truth was a matter of perspective, _hahren_?”

He bowed his head. “So I did.”

“And anyway,” she said, the smile full on her face now, “the real fun of the solstice isn’t in all the religious ceremony.”

“Oh?”

“Surely you’ve seen a few of the celebrations in your travels through the Fade.”

His eyes danced, wicked, nearly black in the firelight. “I may have witnessed a few, yes.”

“Then you know that the best parts come _after_ the fire goes out.” Her boldness surprised her— it must have been the wine. Or the languid sprawl of his long limbs, stretched out towards the flames. Like a cat, or…

“Then that is one thing the Dalish got right.” He hadn’t moved, but she could have sworn he was closer, or maybe it was the pounding of her heart in her ears, making the world feel more immediate than it had in days. “The bonfires in Arlathan were a story high, stretching from one horizon to the next, flames colored like wildflowers. And the night held more revels than mulled wine and talk.”

His eyes met hers, and the expression she saw there took her aback. It lacked all the careful control he usually cultivated. It was _hungry._ She’d only seen it once before, in a dream that wasn’t a dream.

He looked back towards the fire, and in a moment the hunger was gone, replaced with his usual furrowed brow. He settled into a frown, fingers toying with the pendant around his neck.

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” she said, in an attempt to return the smile to his face, reaching to the side for her satchel. The only gift left was his. “I, ah, got you something.”

He looked more shocked than she expected, and she cursed herself internally— of course he was shocked, this was a human tradition and this was _Solas_ , what was she thinking? 

But he smiled. “You surprise me again, _lethallan_. That was hardly necessary.”

She shrugged. “It was fun, actually. Figuring out what everyone would want.”

His smile turned sardonic. “The work of a Herald.”

She felt bashful, fingering the gift. It suddenly seemed deeply stupid. But there was no turning back now. “Close your eyes?”

He arched an eyebrow but complied, holding out his hands. She knew him well enough to see the smirk beneath the calm exterior.

She dropped the small package into his hands. “Alright— open up.”

He blinked a few times, balancing the bag in his palms. “What is it?”

“Coffee! Coffee beans, I mean. I know you hate tea, and this is much better— for most people. Not me, personally, but people who dislike tea love the stuff. It’s a richer flavor, less watery. Oh, and it’s got cocoa in there, too… Leliana managed to get some for me, on short notice too, it’s hard to get outside of Antiva with the war— “ she cut herself off. _Fenedhis_ , since when did she start babbling? Was it Sera’s influence?

Solas held up the package to his face and inhaled, his eyes closing. He was silent for a long moment, and Lavellan realized she was holding her breath.

“Scent is so closely tied to memories. This is something I have not smelled in— what seems like an age.” He opened his eyes, heavy lidded now, a sad smile playing at his lips. “Thank you, _v_ — _lethallan_. This gift is kinder than you know.”

“Don’t mention it.” She was breathless. These odd moments of intimacy threw her off-balance every time, but she craved them all the same. “Really, don’t. Yours was even more expensive than Vivienne’s, and I think she’d be jealous.”

His laugh was a relief. “You honor me.” Solas stood, holding out his hand. “Allow me to return the favor.”

She took it, stumbling a little when she stood. She was unsure if it was the wine or the thrum of happiness in her chest. His hands were so warm. “Lead on,” she said, with an offhandedness she didn’t feel.

Somehow their hands stayed joined through the dark walk up to the fortress. He led them through a side passage she knew from experience led to his study in the rotunda. 

The light was dim, the only sound Leliana’s ravens shuffling, sleeping in the rafters. She had never been there when it was so quiet— they were so rarely alone, even in their late evening talks, always aware of the eyes looking down on them from above. A single candle was at his desk, resting on the usual pile of books, the quick nearly burned out.

“Fire hazard, Solas,” she said.

He waved his hand with a flourish and the candle reshaped itself, whole again and twice as bright.

“Show-off,” she muttered. He smiled, but it was tinged with an unusual nervousness.

“Here,” he said, moving to his desk and opening a drawer, handing her a small wrapping of cloth. “For you. A token of my admiration.”

She unwrapped it carefully, feeling its delicacy through the fabric.

It was a necklace.

“Solas,” she breathed, voice catching. A simple silver chain, finer than anything she’d ever owned. A small pendant in the shape of an arrow hung from it, slender and strong. 

“I hope you’ll wear it,” he said. “Set it in your palm, and it will always point north, so you will never be lost.” His smile was wry. “I couldn’t resist a little practicality.”

She couldn’t find her voice. “Solas,” she whispered after a long moment, “This is… you didn’t have to…”

His hands cupped hers. “I wanted to, _vhenan_.”

Her eyes darted to his, wondering at the endearment. She saw him falter, the admission accidental, but then he seemed to steel himself, meeting her eyes, and she saw the beginnings of a decision there.

She took a shaky breath, looking down at the necklace. “It’s beautiful.”

“I cannot take all the credit. I had excellent inspiration,” he said, and gently took the chain from her hands, moving to stand behind her. He brushed her hair aside, the touch making her shiver, and fastened the chain. His hands lingered, softly stroking the nape of her neck. “It suits you," he said, and though she couldn't see herself, she had to agree.

He brought his forehead down to rest on her shoulder, lips meeting the curve of her neck, just above where the chain rested. She leaned back against him with a sigh, eyes closing— she could stay there forever, if he’d allow her. He took hold of her shoulders and turned her, then, so careful, and she only caught a glimpse of his face before his lips were on hers.

It was not the hungry kiss they’d shared in the Fade, when weeks of pent-up feeling were let loose in a moment. This kiss was quiet, longing. He held her tightly, like she might slide through his arms and into the ether at any moment. When his mouth opened against hers, his gentleness sent a tingling warmth through her, toes to head— happiness, perhaps, or homecoming.

Finally he pulled away, hands on her shoulders, another sad smile on his face. “It’s late,” he said, voice thick.

“I know.” She didn’t move, fingers playing with the edge of his collar, her offer unspoken.

“I believe you have an early meeting with the Orlesian ambassador.”  The tension in his shoulders was obvious— she could feel him gathering the shreds of his self-control, and, just as clearly, could feel how much he was trying to hide it.

She smiled, to let him know she understood. “Indeed.” She knew a dismissal when she heard one, however kind it was. She didn’t know his reasons— didn’t know what it was that weighed him down in those moments, kept him careful and controlled, but she had promised him time to think, and tonight, at least, she wouldn’t argue with his burdens.

He finally drew his arms back, regret and gratitude warring on his face. “Then I bid you good-night.”

She stood on her toes and, before he could react, brushed her lips against his cheek. “Good-night, _vhenan_. Thank you for the gift.”

She turned to go, unable to hide a grin at the look on his face as he watched her leave, his hand touching the cheek she'd kissed.

 

* * *

 

When she awoke the next morning, Cole was on her balcony, peering down into the chasm below. The rose was still fresh in his hat.

“Morning,” she said, stepping out to join him, shawl tight around her shoulders. His unusual visits had stopped surprising her. “Did you have a nice time at the party, Cole?”

He stared at her— no, beyond her. “I’m weak tonight, not strong. The kettle is wailing. They throw rocks but I don’t cry. Mother in her second-best dress. She’s sad, so sad, her fingers on my cheek, red when they pull away. It aches and it swells but it’s all _before_ and the touch makes it hurt less, was it a spell or something else? A mug in my hands, brown as mud, bitter and sweet and hot, and how can it be the same? I had almost forgotten, I _had_ forgotten. Kinder than she knows, and I can’t tell her _why_.”

He went silent and still. When she blinked, he was gone, and she was alone again, winded like she’d been running.

She held the arrow pendant tight in one hand, looking out towards the dawn. Today the sun would stay longer in the sky. In due course the days would grow shorter again, the nights colder, but on that morning, she decided to take the light cresting the mountains for what it was. No more, no less.

 

* * *

 


End file.
